


Next Ship to New Kaon

by Seiberwing



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Gen, Outer Space, Prostitution references, sombreros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seiberwing/pseuds/Seiberwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackarachnia formally joins the Decepticons. You don’t have to be a freak to be in this army, but it helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Ship to New Kaon

“After you get out of the tunnel you want to go around this way,” said Octane, drawing a line through the static-marred holographic map above his worktable. Blackarachnia followed his motions with some difficulty. The dark mech had a habit of talking with his hands as much as his vocalizer and he talked quite fast. “Go right up this street, cut around the back of the place that has the sign of the big purple tank with the wiggling treads on the roof—not the one next door with the sign with the APC, that’ll put you somewhere else entirely--and turn right. It should be slot 623, next to the aquatic-style restaurant, shuttle there will take you up to the ship. Got it? Totally easy to find, there’s signs everywhere.”

It was about damn time, too. “And this Decepticon I’m meeting, anything noteworthy about him?” Blackarachnia asked, fixing the map in her mind.

“He’s a big jet, wings out to about here.” Octane gestured out to each side of his body to indicate her contact’s impressive wingspan. “High-ish voice, nice legs, Decepticon insignia, you’ll hear him way before you see him. Bit on the weird side, but who isn’t in this army.” He gave her a flirty grin as he folded the map away. “Congrats, by the way. There’s quite a few ‘cons down here who’d kill to get out to New Kaon.”

Blackarachnia scowled and flashed her little fangs at him. “They’d better stay well away from me, if they know what’s good for them.” 

“Heh. Cute. “ Octane looked as if he wanted to pat her on the head for such an adorable little display of aggression. “Just don’t screw anything up, or it’ll be my aft as well as yours. Whoever it is that's doing this run might not be as nice as me. Go skitter on, and close the hatch behind you.”

Octane’s store, a Decepticon waypoint and meeting place masquerading as a fashion mod shop, was situated on the edge of the neutral spaceport’s entertainment district. Blackarachnia had found herself delivered there after spending a month with Decepticon agents and sympathizers shunting her between towns like a package on a commuter train and finally sticking her in the back of a freighter and shipping her off-planet. She’d spent the last few days sitting around in Octane’s basement wedged up against crates of smuggled weaponry and another Decepticon who’d talked to the wrong sort of informant and needed to leave the city very quickly and quietly. It was all very cloak and dagger, thrilling in the tense moments of hearing Autobots making deals one floor up, but processor-stalling dull at all the other times. Supposedly the entertainment district was far more lax in its adherence to Autobot law and even Decepticons could walk about freely with no fear of harassment. Blackarachnia hoped the same applied to technoorganics. 

She picked her way through the narrow oil-dark passage in vehicle mode, her legs scraping the wall whenever she deviated more than a few meters. Her new organic body had a knack for picking up nearby vibrations and Blackarachnia wasn’t comforted by the sensation of countless mechs tromping around over her head—or by the fact that Octane had the entire tunnel rigged to collapse should something go wrong.

The thin slit of light at the other end of the passageway turned out to be the edge of an opening mostly blocked by a dumpster, which reeked of old lubricant and organic filth. She delicately picked her way through the garbage and came out onto the street, dimming her four optics against the sudden glare as she stepped out to look at the world.

After the dim silence of Octane’s basement, the raucous cacophony and blinding colors of the streets nearly made Blackarachnia want to scuttle back down the tunnel again. She’d seen the tops of the tall, bright buildings from outside the district but they were far more intimidating up close, with curving, bloated bases stretching up to high peaks and neon signs sticking out at odd angles. Above the tops of the skyscrapers curved the pearly white expanse of the colonial dome, which separated the inhabited sections of the tiny planetoid from the rest of the universe.

Blackarachnia pulled her gaze down to street level. At least the buildings were minding their own business, garish and oddly-shaped as they were. The crowd around her was thick and multicolored and Blackarachnia nearly found herself trampled when she tried to get out of the alley. There was no pattern to the style and altmodes of the population; size varied so much that there were a few larger bots carrying companions on their shoulders. Tall, strongly-built mechs of obvious military function were shoving their way through the crowds as if they were perfectly legal models. There were even little organics scuttling around the immense maze of legs and wheels as the normal people went about their business.

Organics, ugh. Blackarachnia wondered perversely if they saw her robotic half the same way that everyone else would see her organic half. She almost wanted to avoid the streets completely and skitter across the rooftops, avoiding any judgmental gazes. But no, a Decepticon took pride in what she was and didn’t go out of her way to avoid a few disgusted glares. Hiding amoungst the buildings wouldn’t be a good way to make a proper impression with her contact. She stepped out proudly and uncaring—but couldn’t resist the urge to stick close to the buildings and curl the front legs of her altmode a bit closer around her head.

At the corner of the main intersection, there was a restaurant shaped like a blue steel brick with lanterns on curved metal rods hanging out into the streets. The poster by the door proudly advertised a special on servo salads, right next to a picture of severed hands with protruding wires nestled together in a metal bowl with a light dusting of iron filings. The line protruding out the door seemed to indicate this particular treat was quite popular with the tourists. She really hoped the “made with real servos!” was just a joke, but it was Neutral territory. There wasn’t much you could put past people who’d split from the Autobots because they found morality distasteful.

“Hey, pretty lady,” called a curvaceous baby-blue hydrofoil from a nearby doorway. “You look stressed, come lay down for a while.” Blackarachnia was halfway to a very complex and extremely venomous insult before she realized the mech was giving her a come-on. 

“Um…not interested,” she managed, turning away with only a modicum of dignity. Octane hadn’t told her she’d be going through the slagging red light district. She firmly looked away from any bot trying to meet her gaze and tried to ignore the blaring LCD signs promising acts and performances that she wished she’d never heard of. 

Clinging to the buildings, unfortunately, brought her into contact with vendors hocking toys, aphrodisiacs, and memory cards from pushcarts (or, in some cases, their own back seats and truck beds). They shouted incomprehensibly about their prices as they walked by, pushing things into the hands of anyone who came close enough to be grabbed and held until they could be separated from their money. There were organics amoung these too; a spindly-limbed orange alien encased in an environmental suit tried to sell her scented lubricant after she spent too long staring at its freakish body. Even the things in the windows of the local souvenir shops were perverse, normal holo-daycards and cheerful decals twisted into obscenity. It made Blackarachnia feel unclean just walking by them.

Elita 1 hadn’t been anywhere more debauched than the Academy bar after official closing hours, and this flagrant display of… _everything_ made her feel like a vulnerable prude. She’d always thought wearing cloaks to hide your form and energy signature looked silly anywhere outside spy dramas but right now she wished she had one. No one had given her techoorganic form any notice, but she still felt uncomfortably exposed like this, open to the jeers and horror of anyone who took more than a passing look at her disgusting hybrid body. 

But this was nothing. Decepticons didn’t get bothered by anything immoral and she shouldn’t either. Blackarachnia put in a firm, scornful face and strode through the crowd with her head held high. This worked for approximately two minutes before she tripped over a minibot and decided to keep her optics on the road. 

Octane was decent with directions, the giant neon purple tank sign was big enough to function as a national landmark. Appropriately, it also reflected the local structure.

_Big Mech Central!—all shapes, all designs, all for you!_

And as if these directions were not enough, a live specimen of tank with wide hips and an alluring smile was lying sideways on a reinforced balcony over the door, slowly stroking her erect turret while a small crowd cheered the display on. Blackarachnia turned to stare in morbid fascination as she passed by and stumbled over another small car, who transformed and kicked her in the shin before retransforming and driving out of her reach. She stood up just as a Decepticon-marked mech came lumbering towards her, bags hanging off his shoulders and turrets. 

He _was_ big and the wings marked him as some sort of jet, although the giant guns on his back didn’t seem to match a jet’s configuration. His giggly “ooh, pardon me!”as he passed through the crowd was in the kind of thick Prussar accent that Blackarachnia thought only existed in movies, but it was nearly as nearly as high pitched as a female bot’s voice. Legs were debatable, but not bad.

He was also covered in pink glitter paint and wearing a green foam hat with a brim that stuck out a good ten feet from his head. Octane had said he’d be weird, but Blackarachnia hadn’t been expecting it to be this level of bizarre. Mentally, she went over the little introduction she’d come up with for herself, something properly dark and seductive. She had an image to keep and a paltry little hello wouldn’t do for one of the Slagmaker’s elite.

Unfortunately for her image, the Decepticon simply nudged her out of the way the moment she opened her mouth and kept on sauntering down the street, singing an obscene drinking song. She didn’t even know what half the words meant, but judging from the other half he wasn’t talking about starship maintenance. 

“Hey, come back here!” she blurted out as she grabbed at the taller mech’s arm, clinging to him against the flow of the crowd. Real smooth, girl.

“Eh?” He looked her up and down, grinning at her with a jagged mouth that looked more like it had been carved out of his face than molded into it. “Ach, organics don’t really rev my motor. But those wiggly things do look like fun!” The Decepticon leaned over, making a grab for one of her alt-mode’s legs. “Are they static inducers? I love those, they’re so tickly!”

Blackarachnia yanked back with a hiss. “Hey, I’m a Decepticon, not a hooker!” 

The grinning jet-thing giggled at her. “It’s okay, we’ve all got our day jobs. And boy, do you have a fun one!” The mech gave her two big thumbs up and somehow managed an even wider smirk. “Go run along now, I have to get to the souvenir shop before we take off. Can’t go without one of those little wall posters!”

_Okay, okay. Calm. Maybe this is some kind of test to make sure you’re cool under pressure. And I’m definitely no pansy…although I’m starting to think he is._

Blackarachnia set one hand at her hip, tossing her head back with a disdainful look. “Look, I’m not what you think. Octane sent me to meet you.”

“Octane?” The bags slung over his shoulders rolled and clinked as he shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t usually get their names. But if you’re going to be that persistent, I do know a pretty jet to introduce you to. Very nervous, won’t touch any of the mechs I bring home. Maybe he has a thing for the squishy stuff?” The Decepticon wiggled his fingers, and before Blackarachnia could manage a comeback he’d leaned down and tweaked her forelegs with both hands.

_FRAG this garbage._

With a hiss of rage, Blackarachnia plunged the sharp tips of her forelegs into the Decepticon’s shoulders, pumping his body full of organic poisons. His giggles crackled, faded and turned into a soft groan as he tottered and fell flat on his back, taking out several shorter passersby as he fell. The grin never left his face.

Blackarachnia gingerly nudged the Decepticon’s unconscious form with her foot. He hadn’t recognized Octane’s name or expected her to be there, maybe he wasn’t the right Decepticon. And if he really was Starscream, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to join the Decepticons in the first place. Sexual harassment had not been on the agenda—especially not when she was a repulsive technoorganic. 

The bots underneath the Decepticon shoved his body to the side and climbed out from under him, tossing a few curses in their direction. Nobody called the authorities, nobody screamed dramatically or stepped in to halt her escape. Someone even gave a congratulatory whoop and asked if she was giving out any more free samples. 

“I’m not a hooker!” she yelled back, trying to single out which particular idiot had called her out. There were a lot of idiots to choose from.

“Then you’ve got some damn weird kinks, lady!”

“Go to the Pit and rust!” Was she the only one here that wasn’t a complete pervert?

The technorganic glowered at the street and soldiered on through the crowd toward the docks. The hovering signposts helped a bit, but looking at them also meant looking at all the other bizarre things they were pointing to. The items for organics were especially grotesque, many of them looking like the slaughtered and reformatted remains of other aliens. It almost surprised her that she made it out without being grabbed, diced, and served on a vendor’s cart in snack boxes. 

The colonial dome ended in a wide, cylindrical opening. On Cybertron it would have just been open space, but on Cybertron there was a greatly lessened need for protection from incoming asteroids and pirate attacks. She could see the slits where the gates could slam shut, and several concentric rings of guns circled the mouth of the entrance. Perhaps they could have been tastefully concealed, to ease the minds of the more sensitive visitors—but like the inhabitants, this place saw no need to hide what it was under a veneer of civility.

The docks were even worse for crowds, and here the average crowd member’s size was much larger. This area was for loading cargo rather than serving people and flatbed trucks were darting back and forth across the landing pad with little regard for anyone standing in the way. Blackarachnia quickly made a drone-line for Slot 623, trying to move through the crush of dock workers and deprived spacemechs before anyone could grope her again. Results were mixed. 

From the sounds of things she wasn’t the only one having trouble. A tall, sharp-winged, large-chinned bot with Decepticon sigils was standing near Slot 623 trying in vain to drive away a shorter but very stubborn red car-bot begging for his attentions. 

Hm. Voice, wings, legs. Why the heck not, the worst she’d get was another unconscious idiot. She flicked a bit of flaked metal from her shoulder and nudged her way through the crowd of gawkers. “Hey-“

The jet spun around with a glare, nearly knocking her over with the guns mounted on his arms. “Not interested!” he shrieked, then paused to look down at her. He paused for "Wait a minute, are you that little freak Octane sent us?”

 _Let it go, girl._ “I am if you’re Starscream,” Blackarachnia answered, smiling with gritted denta and staring up at him with folded arms.

The jet threw his arms in the air, growling in frustration. “Finally! I’m tired of standing around having people ask me how much I cost and trying to grab my aft. This city is full of perverts!” Blackarachnia, in the interests of making a good impression, did not mention he’d been standing right under a sign advertising a facility which catered to appreciators of “jet sluts”. 

“Let’s get out of here before I burn this entire place to the ground. I swear, if Blitzwing doesn’t get back here soon I’m taking off without him.” Starscream took her by one thin arm and dragged her off clearing an angry path through the dock workers with waving claws and obscure curses. Once again, for the sake of the good impression, Blackarachnia didn’t tear his arm off, even when he wound up practically stuffing her into the back of a large, pale cargo hauler before slamming the door behind them.

Starscream folded his arms and leaned against a stack of crates marked “Fragile, contents may explode”, and Blackarachnia imitated the gesture on the opposite wall. Even before her transformation she’d been reasonably short, but Blackarachnia still couldn’t get over how massive Decepticons were. As if she didn’t have enough to be intimidated by.

“So, you’re Blackarachnia.” Starscream looked her at her as if she was a petrobeetle that had wandered into his mercury shake. “We must really be scraping the bottom of the can in the recruitment department if we’re taking in Autobots the size of my forearm.”

“I’ve got some hidden talents,” Blackaracnia replied, managing to keep it cool and sultry. Starscream was crabby but they were alone and she could finally practice her femme fatale persona without any insane interruptions.

The door opened again and an ominious cackle floated inside. “Eee! Starscream, you actually found one this time!” crooned a gleeful voice. 

_Oh no. Not him again._

It was the glittery moron from earlier, now with more bags under his arms and a small metal figure on a chain hanging from the brim of his hat—red, this time, someone must have stolen the green hat while he was unconscious. He seemed to have retained his good mood, but if he told Starscream she’d attacked a superior officer she’d really be in the incinerator.

Starscream scowled, looking like he’d spit in the other’s direction if the perverse mech wouldn’t enjoy it too much. “Meet Blitzwing,” he said, pointing with disdain. “He’s perverted, schizoid, and an idiot three times over. Try not to kill him, spark knows I can barely resist sometimes.”

Blackarachnia raised two optic ridges, looking from one jet to the other. “We’ve…met. Unfortunately.” Again, had to play it cool, shove it off as if she thought nothing of knocking out other Decepticons.

Blitzwing clasped his pastel hands together, sighing happily. “My little cessna is becoming a jet! Ooh, and she’s a feisty one! Megatron never lets me bring home take-out, but I’m sure for you he’ll make an exception.”

“I’m not a pervert!” Starscream yelled. 

Blackarachnia joined in with a vigorous “And I’m not a hooker!” 

Blitzwing didn’t seem to care and the jagged grin never left his face. “You’re going to have so much fun together! Although you really should have come to me first, Starscream, I could have recommended you a really fun place! I’m so good at that, aren’t I, I even found one for Lugnut!”

Blackarachnia honestly could not think of an answer that came with any dignity attached to it. She’d expected the Decepticons to be huge, cruel, and intolerant of the slightest display of weakness, but they were acting more like a comedy duo.

“What _did_ you do with Lugnut, anyway?” Starscream asked, sounding disgusted. He put a hand to the side of his mouth, speaking in a quiet aside to Blackarachnia—which didn’t make much sense, considering that Blitzwing was right there and could hear every word of it. “Although I’m not sure I want to know. “ 

“I found the perfect place for him! It’s called the Rotary Club. They have Megatron impersonators, so he’s really enjoying himself!” He paused, pressing a finger to where his lips would be and looking thoughtful for a moment before his mouth snapped back to its normal grin. “Well, he wasn’t too happy when I left him there, but I’m sure he’s having fun now!”

“Whatever gets him off my back,” Starscream said. “I don’t give two screws what he does.”

“Oh, he’s getting more than two screws, don’t you worry!”

This was really not what she needed. Blackarachnia left the two Decepticons to their lewd gestures and disgusted denials and skittered up over the cargo to see if the pilot was doing anything saner. As it happened, there wasn’t one; the shuttle was unmanned and set on autopilot.

It still made better company than Blitzwing and Starscream.

Blackarachnia perched herself on top of the one of the consoles, one knee curled to her chest as she stared out into space. So this was finally it. Once she hit New Kaon she’d get her brand and officially enter the Decepticon Army, no turning back. Blackarachnia almost found herself looking forward to it, and made a note to have that feeling looked at by a medic. Hopefully it was a passing glitch due to nervousness. She wanted to join them but she didn’t actually want to become one of them.

They were coming up on a large asteroid and Blackarachnia leaned forward to try and get a peek at the ship. It wasn’t uncommon to park larger ships outside of a colony and run a shuttle down to the surface, rather than pay the high fees and try to wedge it into the docking bay. Still, they were getting pretty close and she couldn’t see it, it must be fairly sm…

Oh.

It was _behind_ the asteroid.

Damn.

“Quite the sight, isn’t it?” Starscream asked, his voice tinged with amusement at Blackarachnia’s awestruck gaping.

“Is that the Nemesis? _The_ Nemesis?” Blackarachnia whispered.

“If it isn’t, someone stole our ship and replaced it with a very realistic hologram.”

“It’s huge. I’ve seen pictures of it but I had no idea it was still in operation.”

Starscream scoffed. “Barely. Most of the ship is on minimum power, or no power at all. With energy this scarce, who wants to power an army’s worth of living space for a skeleton crew? We mostly use it for cargo now.”

“I’m turning the rec hall into a sculpture garden!” 

“Nobody cares, Blitzwing.” Starscream slammed the door to the rear of the shuttle closed, cutting off any more creepy announcements. “Why don’t I take you on a tour of the parts we actually use?” he asked, voice turning to that venomous geniality favored by the more mannered Decepticons.

“So you’ll have an excuse to make Blitzwing do all the unloading?”

Starscream smirked, and reached across to turn the controls back to manual. “Look at you. You’re picking up Decepticon habits already.”

From the outside, the Nemesis was an awe-inspiring behemoth of destruction and evil. Inside it resembled a normal, slightly run down battle ship with a bad case of gigantism. The engines were far more powerful than those in any modern Autobot ship and the massive cybertroid alloy star drive had weathered the war impressively, but the general setup closely matched what she’d trained on at the academy. The smallest bunk—motorcycle quarters, Starscream called them--could have fit her, Sentinel, and Optimus with room to spare for her extra legs. Starscream claimed that she could have any unoccupied room she pleased, but that living a half-mile away from the rest of the crew could wear on one’s nerves after a while. They tended to cluster just close enough that they couldn’t hear each others’ presences until they tried. The captain’s quarters were likely far larger and grander, but Starscream didn’t even dignify them with more than a wave as they passed by. Whoever he was, she got the feeling Starscream didn’t like him very much.

There _was_ a torture room deep in the bowels of the ship, which restored a bit of her faith in the abhorrent nature of the Decepticons, but even that didn’t look like it had been touched in a long time. Starscream’s throwaway comment about making sure she stayed useful so the boss wouldn’t use her for electrowhip practice sounded more like rhetoric than credible threat. 

At the end of the tour, Starscream sat her down in front of a monitor and showed off some of the Decepticon training modules, so he’d have an excuse to leave. It appeared to be propaganda and selectively edited historical records, for the most part, but it was either mostly outright lies or the Autobot High Command had been hiding a few things. Blackarachnia wasn’t sure which she’d rather believe, but she’d seen a lot of Decepticons acting nothing like what the High Council said Decepticons acted like. If they were wrong about the present, they might have toggled with the truth about the past.

The prodigal Lugnut--or what Blackarachania assumed was Lugnut, as he hardly looked like Boss material--came stumbling in a few hours later. Blitzwing and Starscream were tall and had some measure of elegance to them, but Lugnut was just a walking wall of interconnected balls of metal with a head that resembled a five-opticked garbage compactor. Blackarachnia couldn’t pick out what kind of altmode he had besides ‘large and scary’. He had no visible wings or wheels, but she supposed they might have folded back somewhere to keep from being crushed whenever Lugnut went to lie down (which, if Blitzwing was telling the truth, he’d been doing a lot lately). If he’d been charging at her across a battlefield she would have been terrified, but right now he looked like he was having trouble just staying upright and not walking into walls. 

“Not a hooker. New Decepticon,” Blackarachnia said as soon as the big whatever managed to focus his bleary optics on her. It didn’t hurt to get that out of the way up front.

“Oh.” He leaned against one of the overlarge consoles, staring at her blankly. The first quiet, passive target she’d had all day, and she had no desire to let him slip away from her.

Blackarachnia stood, letting one leg slip out to the side. Her left hand lay gently against her thigh, the right against her hip, and her forelegs curled against her neck to look provocative yet deadly. “The name’s Blackarachnia,” she purred, smiling just enough to flash the points of her fangs.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t quite the reaction Blackarachnia had been hoping for. He looked tired, maybe he just needed a chance to get his mind in order…

Lugnut’s arm suddenly swung up to point triumphantly at the ceiling. Blackarachnia had to dodge back just to avoid being hit in the face. “Our numbers continue to swell! Another member of the loyal Decepticon army of the great and glorious Megatron!” he shouted, even as he wobbled on unsteady feet. “May all of Cybertron and the outer colonies praise his name!” His optics dimmed, then refocused on her as his massive arm fell again to point commanding pincers in her direction. “Pray that you may live up to the honor of bearing the Decepticon name, and proudly serve under his magnificent rule!”

Also not the response she was expecting. Blackarachnia took a step back from the hulking bot and nodded weakly, wary in case he started flailing again. “Yeah, I’ll do that.” Now there was that Megatron-worshipping fanaticism she’d been expecting from the other Decepticons she’d met. Apparently Lugnut had taken it all and condensed it down into himself.

“Good!” Lugnut’s arm dropped and he stared out into space again, as if he’d lost his train of thought. 

“Ah, Lugnut, you’re back,” said a delicate cool voice, and a strangely familiar mech stepped out onto the bridge. He could have been Blitzwing’s build-brother with a different face and a sane paint job-- and probably was, if they really were Prussars and not just putting on the accent to sound tough.

Prussarus had been a colony specializing in military goods before the Great War, indiscriminately selling their equipment to any buyer regardless of cause. The Autobots had sent in a force to try and pacify them, as they had been arming several revolutionary groups that would later add their support to the fledging Decepticon movement. Their militant nature had been their own undoing. It wasn’t an Autobot assault that brought them down, but an industrial explosion at one of their factories that took out most of the main stronghold. After the destruction of their home, the survivors had willingly accepted Autobot aid and merged into normal Cybertronian society—or that was how the academy had taught it.

Blackarachnia didn’t know if the Prussars formally existed anymore, but if they did it was no surprise they were with the Decepticons.

Lugnut fell into a half-turn, pincer-hand still on the console for support. “You abandoned me,” he murmured resentfully. “I turned around and you were gone.”

“It was for your own good.” There was a soft whirring and like a flickering hologram the Prussar’s face abruptly went from thin and blue to broad and red. “Even if you don’t appreciate what I do for you, you ungrateful celibate!” 

Even before the whirring started again Blackarachnia had a sinking feeling as to where this was going. The Decepticon’s face spun around again and revealed the black-painted fanged grin she’d run into down on the colony. 

“You’re still Blitzwing, aren’t you?” she said resignedly. Now that she was looking for it she could see the bits of wet glitter and runny paint in the crevices of his plating, where the shower hose hadn’t been able to get at them. 

Blitzwing spread his arms gleefully. “The one and only! Are you still not a hooker?”

“She is Blackarachnia,” Lugnut said, his largest optic slowly irising and then widening again. Blitzwing swapped back to the cool blue face again and put an arm halfway around Lugnut’s torso, trying to hold him up.

“Let’s get you to your room before you fall over.”

“Yes. Yes, I will do that.” Lugnut’s CPU rallied the troops again. “I will go prepare myself for our glorious leader’s return, so that I will be ready to serve him the minute he commands me!”

“You have no stamina at all, I don’t know why Strika took you in,” Lugnut mumbled something in reply and just leaned on him. Blackarachnia hooked the audio jack up to her audials again and turned up the volume.

 _General Strika? These guys must be really well connected. Maybe she keeps them around for target practice._

Between the sound and the processor numbness that came with staring at a screen for far too long, she didn’t even notice the final member of the crew entering the ship until he’d plucked the jack from her head. 

“Blackarachnia, is it?”

The deep, purring voice was easy to recognize. She’d spent hours listening to it give speeches so powerful and convincing that she was starting to think that leaving the Autobots was actually a positive move on her part rather than act of desperation. The only major difference was that the mech in the records was proud, energetic, and powerful while the mech behind her sounded tired of life in general.

“Me…I…Lord Megatron?” the transorganic stammered in horror, ruining another brash introduction as she tilted her head back to look at the silvery figure looming over her. In the dim light of the bridge he seemed even bigger and more fearsome than he already was, all sharp edges and dark shadows framing a cruel face with smouldering red optics. Starscream had been referring to ‘the boss’ or ‘his lordship’ with the same tone one used to refer to scraplets, not deigning to dignify him with a name. Octane said he had no idea who was going to be on this run besides Starscream.

“Put the ‘lord’ away,” the Decepticon leader said, waving a dismissive hand at her. “No one but Lugnut means it this late in the evening and I’ve had enough empty flattery today.” He sat down heavily in the seat next to her, fitting comfortably into the size of chair that left Blackarachnia’s legs dangling helplessly above the floor, and pushed a can of oil towards her. “Drink with me?” 

“Sure…” She accepted it gingerly, puncturing a hole in the top with a flick of her foreleg. Megatron sat back, and cracked open a second, pouring it into an ornate goblet inscribed with spirals and circuitboard patterns.

“How do you find us?”

“Us?”

“My Decepticons.” He raised a hand, gesturing towards the personal quarters. “And do be honest about it. As I said, I’ve had enough of false flattery for today.”

“Well…” Megatron nodded encouragingly at her. It had to be in a test, either in obeying orders or in offering the proper amount of flattery. He probably wouldn’t just kill her out of hand, not when they’d expended so much effort getting her here, but a painful show of dominance seemed nearly inevitable if she answered wrong. So…honesty it was.

“Blitzwing’s a nut, Lugnut’s a fanatic, and I’m not sure what it is about Starscream but just being around him makes me want to punch him in the face,” she answered, her timid voice not backing up her insults.

Megatron chuckled lightly, taking a slow sip of his oil. Blackarachnia had always pictured Megatron as a ruthless tyrant who would torture his own troops for amusement if they stepped out of line and left terror in his wake whenever he so much as crossed the room. Amoung the younger Autobots he was practically a demon, a monster in the night capable of acts of cruelty that defied the laws of physics. The Megatron before her seemed almost likeable and if the other servo was going to drop she had no idea which direction it was going to come from.

Blackarachnia wondered if this was that famous charisma Megatron had, that turned loyal Autobot prisoners into craven Decepticons with a simple chat and a few subliminal virii. Even without viral infection she felt like opening up to him. The sex-dealers down in the city wished they had this much raw magnetism to sling around.

“We’re not quite as black as Ultra Magnus makes us out to be, I’m afraid,” Megatron said. “The Decepticons take in the rust that the Autobots slough off, as I’m sure you know quite well. Unfortunately that does mean the inclusion of the freaks, the fanatics, the madmechs, and the Starscreams of the galaxy. In these dark times we can hardly afford to be picky. But, if it affords you any comfort, for all their flaws those three are some of the most talented and versatile warriors I have. Starscream is my air commander and second-in-command. Lugnut is a powerful and loyal warrior, known as the Kaon Krusher in the gladiator circuit before the war and consort to one of my best generals. Blitzwing is a triplechanger and one of the few unsurrendered survivors of the massacre at Prussarus. And you, even with your technoorganic status, are hardly bereft of personal flaws.” Blackarachnia’s fingers dug into the oil can for a moment, bristling reflexively at the insult before her processor went back and reexamined the statement.

 _Even_ with? Megatron made it sound like a benefit. Blackarachnia managed to tilt the overlarge can downwards with careful leverage and gulping down a mouthful in reply, having to hurriedly push it up again before it dipped over and hit her in the face. 

Megatron watched her struggles with some amusement. “Octane recommended you very highly, a great rarity for someone with little training and no detectable record in the Cybertronian database. Until my contacts validated you, I was beginning to wonder if Autobot Intelligence had simply gotten very sloppy and sent me the system’s most obvious spy.”

“You thought Autobot intel would talk to technoorganic scum long enough to make her a spy?”

“They’re getting more creative these days. Perhaps we have become enough of a threat that they’d deign to speak with ‘scum’ such as yourself.” He smiled lazily, the tip of his fifth finger tapping against the neck of the goblet. “Rest assured, we will erase such outdated, xenophobic attitudes once we have destroyed the oppressive Autobot regime.”

Now there was that rhetoric she’d been expecting. “Sounds nice,” Blacharachnia said dryly. Unbelievable, but nice.

“You don’t believe me?” The question was delicately menacing, like titanium claws in a soft rubber sheath. He hadn’t moved, but somehow his presence seemed far more threatening. 

“I…” Blackarachnia wavered, scrambling for an appropriate answer. “I don’t really care what they think about me. Screw them, they have a problem they can take it up with me.” She threw in a soft, guttural hiss and a small thrust of her forelegs for effect.

“Mmm.” Megatron looked her over, helm to petite pointed feet. He threw his head back and drained the last dregs of his fuel, then crushed the oil can flat between his palms—a casual, working mech’s gesture. “Then you’ll fit in quite well around here,” he said with another dark chuckle, getting to his feet. The other Decepticons tend to say the same thing.”


End file.
